


24 Italian Fables and Imaginings

by Songstress21 (Cantatrice18)



Category: 24 Italian Art Songs and Arias
Genre: Backstory, Drabble Collection, Gen, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantatrice18/pseuds/Songstress21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of the famous song collection that is the basis for every young classical singer's training, these stories provide a hint of the events leading up to each song or aria. Including both the realistic and the fantastical, the tales range from a courtship from afar to the diary of one rather famous birdcatcher... The song text is provided in Italian and English for context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Se Florindo è Fedele

Se Florindo è fedele io m'innamorerò,  
S'è fedele Florindo m'innamorerò.  
Potrà ben l'arco tendere il faretrato arcier,  
Ch'io mi saprò difendere d'un guardo lusinghier.  
Preghi, pianti e querele, io non ascolterò  
Ma, se sarà fedele, io m'innamorerò.

If Florindo will be loyal, I'll fall in love with him  
If he's loyal, I'll fall in love with him.  
Let him tighten his bow, That quiverful archer Cupid,  
I'll surely be able to defend myself from tempting glances.  
I won't listen to petitions, tears and quarrels.  
But if he'll behave in loyalty, I'll fall in love with him

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

On the first day he brought flowers. The wind had swept many of the petals away by the time I found them lying on the doorstep, but I knew instantly they were from him. He always liked to flirt with the girls in town, and I’d noticed his eyes on me not a few times before. I wasn’t about to throw myself at him like the silly schoolgirls that followed him around like a herd of sheep with their shepherd. I brought the flowers inside, but said nothing of them to anyone. 

On the second day another bunch of flowers appeared, larger this time and with a ribbon around the stems to hold them together. I placed them in a water jug by my bedside and told no one. 

On the third day he left a note. In a graceful hand he wrote of his ardor, his secret love for me that he’d concealed from all until now. He said things in that letter which I have never heard spoken aloud by any man, and certainly not by him, so suave and confident in everything he says and does. These phrases, delicately scratched on paper, told of a different man altogether, one whose heart had the ability to remain true to only one woman, if that woman was the right one. But it is early yet; we shall see how his love stands the test of time. If Florindo is faithful then maybe, maybe I’ll fall in love.


	2. Per la Gloria D'Adorarvi

Per la gloria d'adorarvi  
voglio amarvi,  
o luci care.  
Amando penero,  
ma sempre v'amerò,  
sì, sì, nel mio penare,  
penerò,  
v'amerò,  
luci care.

Senza speme di diletto  
vano affetto  
è sospirare,  
ma i vostri dolci rai  
chi vagheggiar può mai  
e non, e non v'amare?  
penerò,  
v'amerò,  
luci care!

For the glory of adoring you  
I want to love you,  
oh dear eyes.  
In love I will suffer,  
yet always I will love you,  
Yes, in my suffering:  
I will suffer,  
I will love you,  
dear, dear eyes.

Without a hope of pleasure  
It is vain affection  
to sigh,  
Yet your sweet glances:  
Who can ever admire them,  
No, and not love you?  
I will suffer,  
I will love you,  
dear, dear eyes.

The prison walls were dank and covered with the sort of mold that can only grow in the darkest, most foul of places, those chambers where men had lost their lives to torture or starvation or merely to the trials of time. Time was in short supply for those condemned to survive in oppressive darkness. Only one thing brightened up the lives of those poor souls locked away from the world, and her name was Sophia. The daughter of the prison warden, she descended to the level of the jail cells each Sunday and brought what little comfort she could to the miserable wretches wasting away. In her soft voice she would read aloud from the bible, her kind heart leading her to passages about hope and salvation, and steering her away from the ever-present verses about damnation and punishment. Each prisoner would crowd to the door of their cell and peer through the tiny barred window to get a look at the maiden sitting calmly by the stairs. She remained calm and collected, reading without regard to any noises around her, and returned the way she’d come when she had finished. But one day, after a rainstorm had left the stone stairs moist and slippery, Sophia lost her footing and, in throwing out a hand to catch herself from falling, let go of the Good Book and let it drop to the ground. It landed by the door of the nearest cell, and she rushed to retrieve it before it could be soiled. Bending, she gathered the Bible into her arms, but as she stood her gaze was inexplicably drawn to the barred window imbedded in the heavy wood of the cell’s door. A pair of piercing blue eyes met hers, drawing her in with their gaze. The prisoner, his body hidden in shadows, leaned closer to the cell door until she could hear him whisper words meant only for her ears. “For the glory of adoring an angel such as you I would gladly suffer all torments.”


	3. Non Posso Disperar

Non posso disperar,   
sei troppo cara al cor:  
il solo sperare  
d'aver a gioire  
m'è un dolce languire,  
m'è un caro dolor.

I cannot despair;   
you are far too dear to my heart.   
The mere hope  
of enjoying you   
is for me a sweet suffering,   
an adorable pain.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Day 263. Still no sign of Papagena. I have seen many a brightly colored bird fall into my traps, but not the sweet little robin I most desire. Such long searching tires me, and I pine for her every moment of every day and night. Yet I will not give up hope – she is somewhere out there in the great wide world, and no matter how long it takes I shall find her. Images of her play through my mind: her sweet smile as she gazes upon me, our little nest of a home that we will build to raise our little Papagenos. When I dream of her I know that I cannot despair, for even in suffering I am happy. And so I shall continue hunting for her and waiting for that blessed day when she will be mine to call my own. Papagena, Papagena, Papagena!”


	4. O Cessate di Piagarmi

O cessate di piagarmi,  
o lasciatemi morir!  
Luci ingrate, dispietate,  
Più del gelo e più de' marmi  
fredde e sorde a' miei martir.

Più d'un angue, più d'un aspe  
crudi e sordi a' miei sospir,  
occhi alteri, ciechi e fieri,  
voi potete risanarmi,  
e godete al mio languir.

 

O stop wounding me,  
o leave me to die!  
eyes so ungrateful, merciless,  
more than ice and more than marble  
cold and deaf to my sufferings!

More than a snake, more than an asp,  
cruel and unhearing to my sighs,  
eyes so proud,  
unseeing and ferocious,  
you have power to make me well again,  
and you enjoy my fainting.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was nearing midnight, after all of the temple’s attendants had long since made their way down the hill and back to their homes, when a man dressed entirely in black slipped through the heavy wooden doors, letting them shut with a creak behind him. Holding his own torch high, he used it to light those encircling the temple until the whole room was filled with flickering golden light. The beams from the torches illuminated a statue, over ten feet in height, depicting a semi-nude woman with long, flowing hair and graceful limbs. At her feet were strewn flowers and other offerings, and one of her arms extended forward as if reaching out to comfort or aid the supplicant before her. The man in black stared at the statue with a mixture of longing and hatred. He moved so that he could stand directly in front of the statue and meet its cold, unseeing eyes. “Well? Have you quite finished, then? Must you take all I love from me before you allow death to take me to my final, blessed rest? I have left my home, my family, my country in pursuit of her, done all that is humanly possible to win her, and yet your interference has been on behalf of my rival, not me. How have I offended? Or is it simply amusing to you, seeing my suffering. You have the power to give and take love from people’s hearts and yet, like true marble, you feel no pity or compassion for my dreadful state.” 

A new, cold glint shone from the man’s eyes, and he took a step backwards so that he could survey the entire temple. “Perhaps that is all you are: marble. There can be no goddess worthy of worship who sees my pain and yet remains silent and unheeding. You are nothing to me now, cruel one. My destiny is my own.”

Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the temple, leaving every torch burning. With luck, the whole place would catch fire and burn to the ground. At the very least, it would mean an inconvenience for the temple staff as they scrambled to find new torches to illuminate their precious idol. She would soon learn though, that goddess, how worthless and trifling her power really was. He felt new strength rising within him, and already plans were forming in his mind. His destiny was in his own hands, and never had he been more assured of success.


	5. Sebben, Crudele

Sebben, crudele,   
Mi fai languir,  
Sempre fedele  
Ti voglio amar.

Con la lunghezza  
Del mio servir  
La tua fierezza  
Saprò stancar.

Although, cruel love,  
you make me languish,  
I will always  
love you truly.

With the patience  
of my servitude  
I will be able to outlast  
your pride.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The ship pulled away from the harbor and began to float in the direction of the current. The crew was quick to unfurl the enormous red sails, and as they did so the sound of cheering echoed across the water. A crowd had gathered to watch the launch, the women throwing flowers into the ship’s wake as they glided by. The sailors took the opportunity to wave to the masses, enjoying their fame, however brief. At the helm the Captain of the proud vessel stood, stoic, unmoved by the scene around him. The first mate approached and cleared his throat hesitantly. “Sir, everything is in place. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about until we reach the open ocean.”

The Captain nodded. “Thank you, Carlo. Why don’t you enjoy yourself, the rest of the crew seems to have gotten a head start.”

Carlo nodded, frowning. “Yes, sir. But –“

He broke off and the Captain turned to look at him. “Go on – you have something to say?”

The sailor nodded, his gaze shifting to the spectators, who still cheered wildly. “I just thought you’d be more interested in the crowds, that’s all.”

The Captain’s smile was sad, almost wistful. “There is no one in that crowd I wish to see, so why should I play the fool for people’s entertainment?” His gaze shifted until his eyes scanned the hill above the city, the villas and palazzos that covered its slopes glittering in the morning sun. The first mate nodded and left, but the Captain still stared, eyes locked on a rose-pink palazzo on the hilltop. In his mind’s eye he could see her, standing by the window and looking out towards the river, listening for the roar of the crowds. He’d sworn to her that he would return, that he would not give up hope of winning her, and she had not denied him. Still, she had let him go without so much as a word of affection. Who knew how long the voyage might take, how many weeks or months would go by before he saw her again? The Captain realized that he had unconsciously taken several steps forward until he was pressed up against the ship’s rail, staring back longingly at the receding hill. He took a deep breath and returned to his place by the wheel. When he looked back, the hill was nearly out of sight, and the noises from the crowd had faded away. He squared his shoulders, preparing himself for the task at hand. Neither time nor distance could shake his resolve: she would be his, no matter how long he was forced to wait and languish on foreign shores. One day his patience would be rewarded, and her cruelty would give way to love. Until then he was, and indeed always would be, her most devoted servant.


	6. Pur Dicesti, O Bocca Bella

Pur dicesti, o bocca bella,  
Quel soave e caro sì,  
Che fatutto il mio piacer.

Per onor di sua facella  
Con un bacio Amor t'aprì,  
Dolce fonte del goder, ah!

 

Beautiful mouth, at last you have spoken  
that gentle, lovable "yes"  
that makes my joy complete.  
In his own honor  
Love has opened you with a kiss,  
o sweet fountain of pleasure.

 

He waved off his manservant impatiently, momentarily annoyed by the hustle and bustle around him. His irritation faded as he heard the church bells begin to ring ten o’clock. In a few short hours they would ring again, joyfully and with abandon. After his patience, his careful courtship, she had finally said that blessed word “yes”, accepting his heart and offering hers in return. He’d seen in her eyes that she’d grown to love him just as much as he adored her. From the moment they’d both been introduced he’d seen something special, something different about her that set her apart from the other giggling and gossiping girls her age. There was a quiet reserve in her demeanor that made him feel like an awkward giant, stumbling over his feet and words in her presence. Hardly a conversation took place that he didn’t come away mentally kicking himself for saying something doltish. But she’d overlooked that failing, she’d listened to him and waited for him to get a grip on himself and speak to her like a man. And when he’d finally mustered the courage to ask for her hand, she’d said that one word, “yes”, that would change his life forever. Smiling, he let his manservant resume fussing over his clothes. He had to look perfect today, for her.


	7. Già il Sole dal Gange

Già il sole dal Gange  
Più chiaro sfavilla,  
E terge ogni stilla  
Dell'alba che piange.

Col raggio dorato  
Ingemma ogni stello,  
E gli astri del cielo  
Dipinge nel prato.

Already, from over the Ganges, the sun  
Sparkles more brightly  
And dries every drop  
of the dawn, which weeps.

With the gilded ray  
It adorns each blade of grass;  
And the stars of the sky  
It paints in the field.

 

The boy held his breath as he carefully slid the cottage door shut behind him. He released it with a sigh as he heard it click shut, the hinges offering no squeak of sound to give away his escape. The faintest hint of dawn was beginning to show over the horizon, and he raced towards the river, hoping he wouldn’t be too late. He reached the banks and hid in a large ditch covered by foliage. Stories had been around for years about what happened on the river at the dawn of midsummer, and this year he was determined to see the truth for himself. He’d found the ditch a week earlier and had hidden it from view until only the most astute observer could tell it was different from the surrounding tangle of grasses. Breathless, he peeked over the edge of the ditch, his eyes locked on the dark water of the river as it lazily flowed southward. He did not move a muscle, not when his nose itched, not even when a small spider scuttled across his hand. He’d waited nearly an hour before he saw it. The sun had begun to turn the water a shimmering gold, and as the light reflected off the waves a tiny light flew to join it. Another pinprick of light joined the first, then another, until a swarm of tiny lights circled above the water. They were like fireflies, but larger and more graceful, and they skimmed among the waves in the morning light. Their whirling dance sped up until the entire river seemed to glitter and sparkle with reflected light from the sun and from the tiny creatures. This went on until the final curve of the sun cleared the horizon. Then, as suddenly as they’d come, the tiny dancers faded away, returning to burrows beneath the grasses or out into the hills, to hide themselves away for another year. The boy waited, but they did not reappear. He heard a church bell begin to ring, and knew he should return before his mother noticed his absence. Still, he walked as though entranced, the memory of the tiny lights filling his mind. He knew now that the stories had been true: faeries were real, and their dance was the most beautiful and magical thing he’d ever seen.


	8. Amarilli Mia Bella

Amarilli, mia bella,  
Non credi, o del mio cor dolce desio,  
D'esser tu l'amor mio?  
Credilo pur: e se timor t'assale,  
Dubitar non ti vale.  
Aprimi il petto e vedrai scritto in core:  
Amarilli, Amarilli, Amarailli  
è il mio amore.

Amaryllis, my lovely one,  
do you not believe, o my heart's sweet desire,  
That you are my love?  
Believe it thus: and if fear assails you,  
Doubt not its truth.  
Open my breast and see written on my heart:  
Amaryllis, Amaryllis, Amaryllis,  
Is my beloved.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It seemed like hours that he stood at the crossroads, looking down on the mist-shrouded valley below. He had watched the sun rise above the hills. Early morning travelers had passed him by, carrying their packs loaded with goods for trading in the next town, or the next after that. Over and over he went over in his head the words he’d last spoken to her – had he seemed too harsh, too demanding? But she knew how he loved her—no, not love. Love was not a deep enough emotion to truly express how much he desired her, worshipped her, lived for her alone. It was only her hesitation that made him react that way, surely she could see that, surely…He shifted weight and grunted as he felt the stiffness in his muscles. He stretched his neck and heard it crackle. Then his heart stopped as he felt a hand brush along his shoulder. He leaped forward and spun, hand reaching for a knife that he kept at his belt. There she stood, leaning on the signpost that pointed the way north to the mountain pass. “I told you I’d be here. Did you think that anything in the world would stop me? My father does not have that sort of power, nor does my mother. I only wavered because I feared for your safety if we were caught.”

Well,” he said, recovering from his shock enough to catch his breath. “We’d best be on our way then.”

She nodded and walked forward, taking his hand. Beaming unashamedly, he led her up the path towards the distant mountains and freedom.


	9. Danza, Danza Fanciulla Gentile

Danza, danza, fanciulla,  
al mio cantar;  
danza, danza fanciulla gentile,  
al mio cantar.  
Gira leggera, sottile al suono,  
al suono dell'onde del mar.  
Senti il vago rumore  
dell'aura scherzosa  
che parla al core  
con languido suon,  
e che invita a danzar  
senza posa, senza posa,  
che invita a danzar.  
Danza, danza, fanciulla gentile,  
al mio cantar.

Dance, dance, young girl  
to my song;  
Dance, dance, gentle young girl  
to my song;  
Twirl lightly and softly to the sound,  
to the sound of the waves of the sea.  
Hear the vague rustle   
of the playful breeze  
that speaks to the heart   
with its languid sound,  
and invites you to dance   
without stopping, without stopping  
that invites you to dance.  
Dance, dance, gentle young girl  
to my song.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

His smile was so rakish that she had half a mind to refuse him, just to see the look on his face, but before she could utter a word the music had begun and she was in his arms, her movement effortless as he guided her through the many weaving and spinning couples circling the ballroom. He had not been boasting – he really could dance! She felt breathless from the sheer speed of his turns. Her body felt as though it no longer belonged to her at all; she was his until he chose to let her go. She squeaked as she felt herself pass within a hairsbreadth of another couple, and he chuckled. “Don’t you trust me?”

She made the mistake of meeting his eyes and her retort died in her throat. He laughed again and with one motion they’d left the mass of dancers, whirling their way out onto the terrace. The sounds of the instruments faded, replaced by the dull roar of the waves far below them as the ocean met the rocky shore. Soon she could hear nothing at all but the pounding of her heart and softer, slower, the beat of his within his chest. Almost imperceptibly they began to slow, both so lost in one another’s presence that neither seemed to notice. Somehow her head had moved to rest on his breast, his hands had pulled her closer and closer. When they finally halted the world seemed as though it still spun around her, and as his lips met hers she felt as though she were dancing still.


	10. Nina

Nina

Tre giorni son che Nina   
In letto se ne sta.   
Il sonno l'assassina   
Svegliatela, per pietà! 

E cimbali e timpani e pifferi,   
Svegliatemi Ninetta   
Perchè non dorma più 

For three days Nina has stayed in her bed.  
The slumber is killing her.   
Please waken her! 

Cymbals, drums, and shawms,   
waken my little Nina,   
so she may not sleep any more.

 

Night had fallen over the little town, and one by one the lights in each house were extinguished. Finally, only one house remained lit. It was a small cottage, with only one large room, near the edge of town by the river. A candle was burning in the window, and another at the bedside of a young woman. She was around 16, her long blonde hair darkened with sweat, and though she tossed and turned with fever her eyes never opened. An old woman sat at her bedside, frowning as she felt the girl’s forehead for the hundredth time. She froze as she heard a soft scratching at the door, then sighed and went to answer it. She opened the door to reveal a young man with disheveled black hair and a threadbare tunic. There were dark circles around his haunted eyes, and he stared past her into the room where the girl lay. “My apologies for disturbing you, I just…how is she?”

The old woman looked at him pityingly. “She is the same as this afternoon. There is nothing to be done but wait.” Seeing the heartbreak in the boy’s eyes, she laid a soft hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Kurt. You will know soon enough if anything changes.”

The boy nodded and she closed the door once more. Listening closely, she heard the boy take a step away from the door, then sit on the ground beneath the window. She returned to watch over the sick young woman, knowing that she was no longer waiting alone. There was no crime in letting him stay, and his prayers could perhaps do what hers could not. For the time being, Nina slumbered on.


	11. Le Violette

Rugiadose Odorose   
Violette graziose,   
Voi vi state Vergognose,   
Mezzo ascose Fra le foglie, 

E sgridate   
Le mie voglie,   
Che son troppo ambiziose. 

 

Dewy Scented   
Pretty violets,   
You are standing Shy,   
Half hidden Among the leaves, 

And you scold   
My desires,   
That are too ambitious. 

 

The group of picnickers departed, laughing as they made their way back down the grassy hill towards their carriages. They did not realize that a pair of sparkling green eyes watched their every move. Hidden among a stand of violets, a sprite lurked beneath a leaf. Her form was that of a beautiful woman in miniature, her brown hair cropped to fall just above her shoulders, her delicate hands no larger than a leaf of clover. A pair of translucent wings lay flat along her back. She stared at the receding form of a young man in a brown coat, her gaze full of both longing and sadness. It was only once they had gone that she ventured out from her hiding place and onto the soft, springy grass. The beautiful April sky was dotted with white clouds, and the sun shone upon every leaf and flower with equal radiance, yet the sprite saw none of nature’s beauty. Lost in melancholy, she pressed a hand into the indentation that came from the footprint of one of the young men who had ventured onto the hill. “If only I could speak to him. But as I am now, he might not even hear my words. He might mistake me for an insect and crush me with one strong hand. Sometimes, I wish he would.” She glanced back at the violets that had afforded her shelter. “What say you? Should I make myself known to him? Or should I crush my own feelings and hide once more – a creature in the woods, not a person.”

The violets did not answer her, nor did she expect them to. Violets were quiet flowers, not like some, and she had chosen them as her sanctuary for that reason. But as she wandered through the trampled grass she heard a wind rustle through the leaves of the little violets, and she knew they disapproved of her. Still, she could not abandon the glorious vision she had created, and as she lay down in one of the many hollows created by boot-shod feet on soft earth, she found herself hoping that some mysterious force in the universe would bring him back to the hill, to her waiting arms. Closing her eyes, she let the heat of the day wash over her and escaped into her dreams.


End file.
